


ivy and gold

by johntography



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Apparel Fashion Designer Asahi, Domestic Fluff, M/M, Presents, what does noya do for a living? probably catch fish in italy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-21
Updated: 2020-08-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:15:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26023279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/johntography/pseuds/johntography
Summary: It just feels so good to be back home, where he knows he can have this any time he wants.Noya wants everything, wants the whole world and everything it has to offer at his disposal, but Asahi in his arms is all he needs right now, for the next few weeks and then some.
Relationships: Azumane Asahi/Nishinoya Yuu
Comments: 2
Kudos: 30
Collections: Asanoya Week 2020





	ivy and gold

**Author's Note:**

> a tardy contribution for day 4 of asanoya week. title is a nod to frank ocean's ivy which i listened to on a loop while writing. hope you enjoy!

“Asahi-san,” Noya calls out in a murmur and reaches a hand forward to the other half of the bed. His fingers grasp nothing but the sheets.

The curtains in Asahi’s bedroom are drawn carefully so that a small stripe of light is left to illuminate the dust on his desk. It’s a cold light that falls onto the haphazardly strewn sewing utensils which Noya couldn’t name even if he tried, paper knives, scissors. Asahi’s trusty little wood mannequin stands proudly in the corner with its limbs contorted to accomodate an impossibly ridiculous pose, and a rush of sleepy warmth spreads out from Noya’s gut.

He remembers playing with the figurine the last time he’d stopped by after another one of his spontaneous travels. That must have been at least a month ago. It stood the test of time.

Noya buries his head in the pillow for a moment, hiding his pout at having been left alone in bed from nobody but himself.

He never lets himself count the days but whenever the hostel bed frames would stiffen up in discomfort, strangers’ snores keeping him up at night, Noya has made it a habit to imagine a snug embrace, a broad chest and the crook between neck and shoulder to replace the present sensation of a scratchy pillow. How it’s a little miracle to be able to rub the calluses on his fingers against Asahi’s stubbly chin in the dark and hear a dopey hum in response. How the night’s gravitational pull presses him flat into the bed, willing him to sleep, but he’ll gladly fight the odds to prop himself up on one elbow and find Asahi’s lips, over and over until it’s lethargy’s fault when all they do is stay connected but unmoving.

Asahi knows a thing or two about that. He must, at least, because Noya doesn’t shy away from voicing himself in texts.

Though with the help of some prodding he has learned that Asahi likes his good morning messages the best, because they make him feel like Noya is really there to disperse the morning daze. Because Asahi is perfectly functional on his own with enough black tea and the safety net of a dozen alerts to ensure he doesn’t oversleep, but he’s never quite as eager to start the day as when Noya is there.

He must have been a little too eager today, Noya muses, recognizing the buzz coming from the living room as the hum of Asahi’s sewing machine. Well, that’s a challenge if there’s ever been one.

Noya shrugs out of his tank top – the only piece of clothing he’d managed to retrieve from his bag yesterday upon his arrival – and goes to the small bathroom to freshen up. He uses the same towel that’s always put aside for him, radiant orange reminiscent of their days on the high school volleyball court. Not that they’re never in the same team anymore because Noya does his best to drop in on the neighborhood association games whenever he can, but Asahi fares well now even when Noya isn’t there to catch his fall.

Noya almost loses himself to thoughts of Asahi on the court, jumping into the air like he’s leaving the orbit and spikes so hard the Earth quakes. What good is that though, when he can pay Asahi back for the sore absence of good morning kisses?

So to complete his revenge plan on the fly Noya rummages in the closet, finds the oldest and rattiest shirt hidden away at the back and putting it on feels more like he’s indulging himself rather than teasing Asahi, but he’s not one to complain.

The lamp on the kitchen table is another clue to how much of a non-sunny day it is today; Asahi must have relocated it from the bedroom to his usual working place to be able to see more clearly. He’s bowed all the way down over his craft, because if there’s one thing that still hasn’t changed about him, it’s his horrible posture. His foot presses down on the pedal and the whirring comes back to life, thread attaching itself to the fabric underneath his hands in what looks like a zig-zag.

Noya knows better than to disturb him in this very moment; experience has shown Asahi to be annoyed whenever he’s startled into messing up his sewing. Patience is not one of Noya’s strongest suits, but he knows that he won’t have to wait long until the mechanical hiss of the clamp lifting up from the fabric resounds and Asahi looks up to see him.

“Asahi-san,” he calls out then. “What’re you already up for?”

Asahi pushes his glasses up his temple with two fingers, a gesture certainly ingrained from seeing their underclassman do it so often, and smiles shyly, like he was caught doing something forbidden. His voice sounds determined and steady, though, when he speaks.

“I wanted to get this one done as soon as possible,” Asahi points to the fabric still bunched up between his fingers. It’s bright in the way most of the clothes Asahi makes aren’t. “Did I wake you up?”

“Dunno,” Noya shrugs his shoulders. The distance between the bedroom’s entrance and Asahi’s kitchen area, part of his open studio space, is curt when divided between his fast steps. Asahi is right there, sitting up a little straighter, smile a little more tender. Noya towers over him a bit like this.

“Sorry if I did,” Asahi says and lets go of the colorful material in favor of threading his fingers into the hair at the back of Noya’s head. It’s shorter there from a past attempt at an undercut, so Noya feels his touch all the more. “Good morning.”

“Good morning to you too, you workaholic,” Noya quips, unable to be seriously mad. Especially when he takes a step closer and situates himself between Asahi’s legs to hug him, soaking up his warmth and the texture of Asahi’s nose against his collar bones. It just feels so good to be back home, where he knows he can have this any time he wants (within reasonable limits of course, like Asahi’s shifts, seeing his friends and family and attending to responsibilities).

Noya wants everything, wants the whole world and everything it has to offer at his disposal, but Asahi in his arms is all he needs right now, for the next few weeks and then some.

In that moment Asahi must recognize what Noya is wearing – or what he’s _not_ wearing, of which there isn’t much – because his arms tighten where they encircle Noya’s waist, like he’s trying to tug Noya closer but there isn’t much _closer_ left.

That’s the downfall of any grumpiness waking up alone might have ensued, because Noya is so satisfied he can’t stop grinning. Not that he particularly wants to.

“So what are you working on?”

Asahi’s arms loosen, because it’s just like him to think Noya isn’t capable of hearing his response unless they break their embrace. “Just a t-shirt,” he replies, blissfully not letting go completely. His hands burn through the cotton on Noya’s skin.

Noya chances a closer peek at the shirt-to-be then. It’s difficult to say what color it is: it looks like it was dyed a mixture. There’s red, both scarlet and crimson, a shade that’s mixed with copper, orange, sunflower yellow, magenta, pansy purple…

“Like a sunset in clothing form,” he gasps out. “It’s stunning.”

“I’m glad you think so,” Asahi chuckles fondly, either at Noya’s fascinated face expression or the absent-minded way he’s kneading Asahi’s shoulders. Noya doesn’t pay that any mind; if anything, he just subconsciously notes how much better Asahi has gotten at accepting his praise.

But Asahi doesn’t go back to working on the shirt. He doesn’t relinquish his hold on Noya, getting up to help him make breakfast and yelping at the slap to his backside Noya would inevitably give him the moment he lets his guard down. Instead he bites his lip for an abysmal moment, looking off into the distance, the direction where the cold white light comes from.

“I’m glad you think so, because it’s for you.”

Noya curses internally at the way he can’t meet Asahi’s earnest eyes.

He’s not a coward, has never been, and he sure doesn’t intend to start now. But how can he face the affection in Asahi’s gaze head-on without making sure it doesn’t burst out of him, like sweets from a jam-full piñata?

And because Asahi, at his core, is still Asahi, he starts rambling.

“It’s just– you keep bringing me all these souvenirs from all around the world, which must cost a fortune– not that I’m complaining, of course, I love them and I take really good care of them, trust me! But it kept bugging me that I can’t give you gifts more often, or gifts that are equally as cool anyway, so I thought I would put all I’ve learned in my training to good use.

"Once I’m done sewing it I wanted to embroider something on the back– a bunch of suns, or a quote maybe, those short Kanji ones you used to wear in high school all the time.” Asahi interrupts himself with a nervous giggle. “It was supposed to be a surprise, but I should’ve known there’s no keeping secrets from you. Not that I’m trying to–”

“Asahi-san,” Noya says, for the third time that day. Asahi quietens down, predictably. He’d have to be real quiet to hear Noya, whose voice has gone all soft and serious, and rain starts pattering against the window glass. So he is.

Noya swallows down the commotion of affection and gratitude in his throat, because what matters right now is that he channels it into making Asahi feel it.

“I love it. I don’t need it to be a surprise to love it, and to love you. And I’ll be happy whatever you choose to decorate the back with,” he declares.

Asahi lets out a little sigh, masked expertly as a sniff of a clogged nose. Perhaps it’s the other way around.

Noya’s hands find their way to Asahi’s chin, jaw, cheeks, temples, easier to grasp in the light, eyes obstructed by his reading glasses but still clear for him to look into. He faces Asahi, and Asahi faces him, and it’s like the whole big world that Noya yearns for shrinks down to the size of one bad-postured Azumane Asahi and one Nishinoya Yuu who hasn’t grown that much since his high school graduation two years ago. It’s perfect.

Their kiss is short, because what’s the use if Noya can just lure him back to bed and re-create a perfect morning with the man he loves?

“Come on,” Noya urges. Doesn’t whisper, even though it would be the perfect fit for their little bubble. “Give me an hour of cuddling, and then you can go back to sewing and I’ll go get groceries.”

Asahi shakes his head, single locks straying away from his messy bun, and gives Noya another kiss, instead. “Let’s go together now, and then we can cuddle however long you want.”

Elated, Noya breaks away. “It’s a deal!” he yells, and knows that Asahi will follow him in due time.


End file.
